


this rain

by helenecixous



Category: Happy Valley (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Suicidal Thoughts, another sad clare one i promise i will make her happy eventually, this is just rly sad sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 08:58:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6560152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helenecixous/pseuds/helenecixous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clare just wishes that Helen Gallagher had stayed a world apart from her. She wishes that they'd never met each other, that Gallagher was still just a name to be sneered at, a name that just meant filthy rich and selfish. She wishes she'd never fallen for the wife of a millionaire, because now, as she stares at the coffin that's blurred and distorted by her tears, as she has to listen to Nevison crying brokenly, she realises that she'll never feel pain like this again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this rain

_ “Clare, you can't go to sleep. Sit up, come on, sit up, that's it, that's right, sit up. Lean on me, come on, I've got you. Don't go to sleep, come on, stay with me. Okay? Stay with me. Catherine’s on her way. So’s the ambulance. We'll get you sorted, you'll be alright, I promise. I've got you. Come on, squeeze my hand, that's it. That's it. Oh- good, good, being sick is good, oh darling I know it's horrid, I know, just sit back up. Well done, you're doing so well. So, so well. Stay with me. You're so wonderful, lean on me. Catherine’s coming. That's it. I've got you.”  _

 

It's all she can hear. She can still feel Helen’s arms around her, her hands holding her hair back, her hands tapping her cheek, her hands running up and down her arms to keep her warm while she waited for help. She can still feel Helen's cheek against her forehead, her cheek damp with tears. In hindsight, Clare wishes Helen had never found her. She wishes she'd been left and she'd died, or at least that someone else had found her - anyone else. Anyone except maybe for Catherine. Catherine wouldn't have been able to cope with finding another dead family member. Clare just wishes that Helen Gallagher had stayed a world apart from her. She wishes that they'd never met each other, that Gallagher was still just a name to be sneered at, a name that just meant filthy rich and selfish. She wishes she'd never fallen for the wife of a millionaire, because now, as she stares at the coffin that's blurred and distorted by her tears, as she has to listen to Nevison crying brokenly, she realises that she'll never feel pain like this again.

 

Catherine, of course, is the only one who knows. She knew about Clare’s feelings for Helen before Clare did, and whatever judgments she had she kept quiet. Now she has an arm around Clare, and she's rubbing her back, and Clare can't help but feel cheated. She can remember clearly each and every stolen kiss, each whispered  _ I love you,  _ each late night phone call. She can remember the first time and the last time and every single time in between that Helen had been in her bed, and could recall the exact details of every conversation in which Helen had told her that there was no one like Clare, that she'd never felt that way about anyone,  _ anyone,  _ not her husband or any of her past lovers. And Clare believes her -  _ believed  _ \- her.

 

She'd got clean for Helen, because of Helen, with Helen. Every time she relapsed Helen was there to catch her and to hold her and to pick up the pieces. She never once gave up. And Nevison - he took her for granted, left her for hours staying late at work, hardly had time for her, and Clare was always struck by how differently she'd treat Helen if she was the one married to her. She had always been there when Helen rang her in tears, just as Helen was there for her, and yet here Nevison is, crying into his stupid handkerchief, being comforted by his minions and Helen's friends and Helen's family, while Clare is forced to stand there, silently, and pretend that she's crying for a coworker.

 

She doesn't make a speech, she doesn't talk to anyone, she doesn't linger. The service ends and Catherine follows her out after offering Nevison and Ann a small smile and a wave. Clare's already out and near the car by the time Catherine catches up with her. They both get into the car and for a while neither of them say anything. Catherine checks her phone, even though it's her day off, and Clare stares out of the window and almost laughs. It's started to rain, of course it has. Because her life wasn't already enough like a tragic fucking film. She rests her forehead on the cold glass of the window and closes her eyes. 

 

“Are we going to the wake?” Catherine asks, and she sounds a little bit distracted. 

Clare shrugs. “I don't know any of ‘em,” she says quietly, unable to keep the bitterness from creeping into her tone. She feels the words leave her and hang heavy between her and Catherine, feels them squeeze her heart and pollute it just a little bit more. She hates everybody who went to that funeral. None of them knew Helen like she did, as well as she did, and yet she knows that they all knew her better. They were open with her, not just a secret or a thing to be ashamed of. She hates herself for feeling so angry, but she hates them and she hates Nevison and she hates Helen and she hates funerals and families and she hates cancer and she hates being alive.

“We can just go home,” Catherine offers quietly, watching most of the other cars pulling out of the car park, driving carefully in the sudden deluge. She reaches out and squeezes Clare's knee, rubs slightly, whispers “it's okay”. And of course it isn't okay, they both know that. But it's alright for Clare to be angry and hurt and heartbroken and scared. It's all fine. 

 

They end up back at Nevison’s house for some reason. Catherine seems completely distracted, but all Clare can focus on is the table of alcohol across from them, the fear that accompanies it, and the surges of self loathing that come in waves so strong they make her feel sick. Helen would hate her, she's sure. She'd be so disappointed. But  Clare's thirsty and she's tired and she's been doing well so  _ why not  _ have a break. And she thinks she'd rather be back on the booze than to give in to the way her arm is itching and throbbing and she can't really take her mind off the pull of the needle. Maybe it would kill her this time. 

 

It's Catherine who stops her, in the end. Catherine and her note -  _ Ring me. I'm not cross x -  _ and the pounding headache that Clare wakes up with. She gets up, and she stumbles to the bathroom, falls to her knees and throws up. As she clutches the toilet bowl and trembles and cries and wrestles with the way she can't stand herself, she remembers the way that Helen used to hold her, and she's bringing up whatever's left in her stomach.

 

She goes back to the allotment, rather than back to substance abuse. Catherine thinks it's a victory, Clare doesn't want to think about it at all. She tries to spend her time thinking about Catherine, worrying about her, thinking about Ryan and Becky and Tommy Lee Royce, because that's easier and safer and more familiar to her than a world without Helen. Eventually, she'll learn to forgive Helen, and Nevison, and herself. She's got more capacity for forgiveness than Catherine's ever had, and she knows it has to be that way.

 

After a few weeks, the taste of things come back. She enjoys tea more, is able to spend more time down at the allotment. It's her space, and she can make things grow. It's something she's in control of, and that's wonderful. She knows she'll never tell a soul about Helen and her, she knows that it's a secret she'll take with her to the grave. She won't even talk to Catherine about it, because it feels like the memories are precious, and limited, as though she wouldn't be sharing them so much as giving them away. If she keeps them to herself she can water them, feed them, keep them healthy and help them grow into safe places that don't give her heart palpitations, in time. She'll nurture them, care for them, because that's what Clare does best, and she'll learn to live with the ache in her bones and the weariness of her heart, because she's so tired, but she's alive.

  
She's in the allotment, and it's raining. She stays where she is, kneeling in the soil, and she tips her head back. As the raindrops splash onto her face she shivers, and the cold of the rain mixes with the heat of her tears and she laughs out loud - it's a kind of half broken noise that escapes her, because Helen's always going to be in the warmth of her tears, and Clare will always be the coldness and fragility of the rain. 


End file.
